


the voice of the sky

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Barricade Day, Canon Era, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: Combeferre and Jehan spend their last days together.
Relationships: Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	the voice of the sky

  1. the evening of the day before



“May I speak to you?” Jehan murmured to Combeferre as they left the Musain.

It had been a frantic couple of days. General Lamarque had died, and they had been thrust into a frenzy of preparation. Combeferre knew, in theory, how much work it took to plan and find gunpowder and make bullets, and all the related tasks bringing about a revolution. He was one of the people keeping track of the tasks, after all. But the past few days were tiring in a deep, bone-chilling way that he hadn’t felt before, not even during his first few days in medical school when he was fueled only by his desire to learn and copious amounts of coffee. Any other time, he would have accepted without a second thought. Today, he just glances at the setting sun, the stars just starting to shine, and calculates how much sleep he will be able to get tonight if Jehan accompanies him home.

“Combeferre?” Jehan taps him on the shoulder, a featherlight one-two press that Combeferre barely feels through his clothes. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” Combeferre says. He doesn’t want Jehan to worry. That is the last thing he wants to do. Logically, he knows that Jehan isn’t fragile, that the fairy-like air he cultivates and the way he seems to tremble at the slightest gust of wind doesn’t mean that he will actually shatter in a single blow, but his feelings towards the man hadn’t been logical in quite some time. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the fatigue away. “What did you want to speak about?”

“Well, tomorrow is Lamarque’s funeral.” Jehan plucks at his doublet. It is light orange today, with embroidered peonies. “I thought that I should dress appropriately.”

“Jehan Prouvaire, dressing appropriately for an occasion?” Combeferre says, trying to keep his tone light. Jehan just looks pained, and flinches away.

“You’re the most appropriately-dressed person I know.” He stares at his shoes. The left one is green and embroidered with small tadpoles, and the right one is a plain brown.

“You insult me,” Combeferre says, attempting a smile. “What could I have possibly done to deserve your wrath?” The light is fading, rapidly, so he feels safe enough to gather Jehan into his arms. 

“I am _not joking_.” His voice carries in the night air, and across the street, Combeferre spots someone open their windows and make a rude gesture. He turns Jehan away from the sight.

“I apologize. May I do anything to help?” He realizes too late that Jehan is crying. Not sobbing, not heaving, but large tears trickling from his eyes and splashing onto his clothes.

“Someone told me that mine would be the most colorful corpse on the barricades. They meant it in jest, I suppose. It wasn’t their fault.” He sniffs, wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“It affected you,” Combeferre says, squeezing his eyes shut against the vision of Jehan at the barricades. He holds the man tighter. If he releases Jehan, he might fall apart.

After a long, long moment, Jehan leans his head against Combeferre’s chest. “I want to wear your clothes,” he says. He rubs his face all over Combeferre’s cravat, and Combeferre smiles despite himself.

“They’ll notice.”

“Let them notice.” The words are muffled into the lapels of his coat.

  1. the morning of the first day



They wake up while it’s still dark. Jehan opens the windows to let the dawn creep in, and slips away to acquire water for the few remaining flowers. Combeferre remains behind, to check the state of the guns stashed underneath their bed, and to write down their wills and their letters. Their landlady, while sympathetic to their cause, had no intentions of joining them. She had promised to send their letters and their possessions to their families if it ever came to that.

Jehan sneaks back into the room with breakfast and a watering can, and presses kisses to Combeferre’s forehead. He accidentally gets smudges on his glasses, and Combeferre shoves him off to clean them.

“Any progress?” Jehan says, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He’s dressed in a dark blue waistcoat, the color of the evening sky. It reaches to his hips, and the back laces are pulled tight. It’s borrowed from Combeferre, along with the shirt he’s wearing and the red cravat with the yellow pattern. Combeferre has a similar one laid away for today, folded neatly on top of the dresser.

“It’s depressing work,” Combeferre says. “I still have so much to get done.”

“Leave it,” Jehan suggests. “Let the cards fall where they may.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “Do you have your guns prepared?”

“I have a musket.” Jehan reaches below the bed and pulls it out. The metal is polished for the occasion, and on the wood, Combeferre can see the faint flower carvings he had made in a fit of inspiration.

“Just one?”

“I can load it pretty well,” Jehan says, bristling. “And I suppose you have a dozen or so guns hidden about your person.”

“Not quite so many.”

“Two?” Jehan guesses, propping his head on his hand. The candlelight flickers over the freckles on his cheeks, and Combeferre has to take a breath.

“Four, but one is not mine to keep.”

“Then we have enough for both,” Jehan said, and there the matter rested.

When they joined the procession, no one said a word about their clothes, although Courfeyrac had a pointed elbowing in store for both of them as they walk past.

  1. the evening of the first day



Jehan finishes his verses and climbs down from his perch on an upturned crate, smiling and blushing in the calm of the darkening street. He crosses over to Combeferre and sits next to him.

“Do you have anything to contribute?” he says. His voice is so soft that it’s almost lost in the general chatter around the barricade, but Combeferre hears him. Combeferre always hears him.

“Your verses were nice,” Combeferre tries. He has never been good at complimenting Jehan’s artistic endeavors, but he strives to do better. “I was moved.”

“Good,” Jehan says. “You were supposed to be.”

They wait, together, in the half-dark. Jehan breathes through his nose and fixes his eyes on the heavens. He murmurs the names of the heavenly bodies and constellations under his breath, and Combeferre presses his hand when his voice wavers and threatens to break.

“Tell me about the stars,” Combeferre says to him. They are Jehan’s pet subject, even more so than literature. It is an attempt to distract him, true, but Combeferre has never passed up an opportunity to learn, and he certainly will not do so now.

Jehan tries to smile. The corners of his mouth twitch. “They say they who are set in the stars will live forever,” he begins, tears trickling down his cheeks.

  1. the night of the first day



A spy had been captured, and Enjolras had just executed a man. Combeferre turns his head away, unwilling to be witness to the fact. Jehan gasps beside him, clinging to his hand. Enjolras makes his speech with great conviction, and seems almost transformed in the unearthly light of the barricade. Both of them watch him long after the deed is done. It is hard to do anything else.

Combeferre finds comfort in Jehan’s soft breathing. They stay together as long as possible before the fighting starts, and then there is madness, and they lose sight of each other.

Combeferre fires as best as he can, forcing himself to stare the guardsmen in the eye. His heart beats strangely, knifelike in his chest. His ears are ringing. He is vaguely aware that Bahorel is dead. He hears the boy Marius screaming from the top of the barricade, shaking a powder-keg and a torch. The assault wanes, and he goes to direct the care of the wounded. He stitches wounds, ties tourniquets, and does his best to comfort the men. He knows most of them, and often the sight of him sets them more at ease. He hides his fear well, that is all.

The roll is called, and Jehan is nowhere to be found. Combeferre breathes in and out slowly, trying to calm the racing of his heart. Jehan wasn’t among the dead. Jehan wasn’t among the wounded. He was a prisoner.

He goes to Enjolras, his heart in his throat. Enjolras knows about him and Jehan. He has known for a few months now.

“They have our friend,” Combeferre says, willing his voice not to shake. He gestures to Javert. “We have their agent. Are you set on the death of that spy?” He pleads in his heart for a favorable response. The small voice in the back of his head says that a trade would be too risky, that the entire barricade might fall.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre’s heart seizes. “But less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.”

Combeferre hides his sigh of relief as well, and volunteers himself to go and make the trade. He is going through his pockets for a white handkerchief when he hears Jehan. Enjolras lays a hand on his arm and bids him to listen. He doesn’t need the reminder. There is fighting, at the end of the street, and Jehan’s voice, furious and deep and desperate.

“Long live France! Long live the future!”

The sound of a gunshot. Combeferre’s heart drops. He doesn’t hear what he says next, nor what Enjolras says.

His glasses hide his tears well.

  1. the second day



Combeferre brings up the last of the bottles and helps place them beneath the table of the dead. He remembers too much of the last few hours, and his head only hurt a little. He refuses to mourn, not today. He can almost hear Jehan’s voice in his ear, telling him to look at the sky and to contemplate the beauty of the universe. He raises his eyes to the heavens and tries not to see the color of Jehan’s hair in the sunrise.

Conversation begins again on the barricade. Combeferre talks about the dead, surrounded by friends. He speaks quietly, and still everyone around them can hear. His interests are bloodstained, and his voice is somber.

When Enjolras makes his report, he joins the others. He brings the uniforms out, the disguises. No one more than necessary is to die today, if he can help it. He adds his voice to Enjolras’, and talks of the misery they fight to end, the horrors he sees when no one else can. If he can convince anyone to leave, he will. At the end of it, five are chosen. Five men are safe. Five more will live.

He listens to Enjolras’ speech, and for a moment, his breath is taken away. It is built from bits and pieces of the philosophies of their friends, their beliefs and their dreams. He’s smiling again, after that.

When they are attacked, he talks about the cannon. He asks Enjolras not to shoot the artillery-sergeant. He does not want more bloodshed. When the artillery-sergeant dies, he shakes his head. There is too much of Enjolras in the man’s manner, and for a moment, Combeferre has to clench his hands and prevent himself from trying to save the man’s life. He admires the man who arrived earlier, who saves lives without killing.

Gavroche dies, and he cannot do anything about it. He distributes the cartridges from the child’s sacrifice, and hates what they have come to. He busies himself with the wounded. When he looks down, he sees the red cravat at his throat, and he remembers Jehan, picking clothes from his wardrobe. It is the last thought he remembers.

He dies looking at the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by [this post](https://boom-goes-the-canon.tumblr.com/post/619070522222837761/themarbleloverofliberty-jeanprouvairess-if).
> 
> I also have a [Tumblr](https://boom-goes-the-canon.tumblr.com).


End file.
